Nigel Tranter: The Courtesan

Mary Gray spoke up again. 'His Grace's safety is in no danger from such as me, I think, my lord,' she said. 'Could a girl drag her King to Ruthven Castle – even if she would?'

King James's suddenly indrawn breath was quite audible -as indeed might have been Mar's own. She took a risk in naming Ruthven Castle in such company and in such a place. But a calculated risk. It had been when out hunting, as now, from Falkland Palace six years before, that the King had been attacked, forcibly abducted to Ruthven and there held prisoner by a group of power-hungry Protestant lords. And John, Earl of Mar, had been one of those lords. The Ruthven Raid was not a thing that had been mentioned at Court for quite some time, James preferring not to be reminded of those days of humiliation – and others equally wishing them forgotten.

'M'mmm. Ah… umm.' The King peered at her from under down-drawn brows, gnawing his lip. His head was apt to loll at curious angles, seeming to be too big for his ill-made body, too heavy for the frail neck that had to support it. Now it drooped forward, and served His Majesty fairly well to hide those great tell-tale eyes of his. 'Ruthven, eh? Aye… Ruthven. Yon was an ill place. Aye.' He swung round in his saddle abruptiy. 'Eh, Johnnie?'

'Er… yes, Your Highness. Indeed it was. Certainly – most certainly… ' The red-faced earl was assuredly redder.

'Aye. I mind it so – mind it well.'

'It was my father who gained Your Grace's freedom from that toil, was it not?' the girl went on, gently pressing her advantage. 'He was none so ill a friend then. And would be again… from another danger.'

'Eh? Danger?' The King's voice squeaked. 'What danger? Fiend seize me – tell me, lassie! What danger?' That word could ever be guaranted to arouse James Stewart.

'I would prefer to tell Your Grace in private.'

'Private. Aye, private. My lord of Mar – leave us. Leave us.' James waved a suddenly imperative hand.

Mar cast a narrow-eyed vicious look at Mary, curled his lip at Lennox, and bowing stiffly to the King, swung his horse's head around savagely and trotted back to the waiting throng.

'Ride on a little, Cousin,' Lennox advised.

'Now, girl – this danger. Speak me plain,' the King commanded.

'Yes. It is danger for your person, your throne, for your whole realm,' she told him earnestly. 'From Spain.'

'Spain, you say? Tcha, lassie – what nonsense is this?'

'No nonsense, Sire. It is the King of Spain's invasion. His Armada…'

'That for the King of Spain's Armada!' James snapped long, strangely delicate fingers. 'A bogeyman he is, no more! Yon Philip has talked ower long o' his Armada. Forby, his invasion is no' for me.' He leered. 'It is for my good sister and cousin, Elizabeth – God preserve her!'

'Yes, Sire. Elizabeth first But who thereafter? When King Philip has England? Mary the Queen, in yon testament, left him heir to Scotland likewise, did she not?'

James all but choked. 'That… that… God's curse upon it! Foul fall you – it's no' true! It's lies – all lies. A forgery it was, I tell you! A forgery.' Gabbling, he banged his clenched fist on the pommel of his saddle. 'Never say yon thing in my hearing – d'you hear me? I'll no' have it! She… my mother… she never wrote it, I swear. A plot, it was – a plot o' yon glowing fiend out o' hell Walsingham, Elizabeth's jackal! I ken it – fine I ken it!' The last of that was scarcely coherent or intelligible, as the King lost control of his tongue, and the saliva flowed down unchecked in a bubbling stream.

Wide-eyed, startled by this passionate outburst, even sickened a little by what she saw, Mary instinctively drew back in her saddle, glancing quickly at Lennox. That young man stared distinctly owlishly at his cousin, and produced neither mediation nor guidance.

The girl, small chin firming, did not further flinch. 'That may be true, Sire – but King Philip holds otherwise. We have word, sure word, that he intends to have Scotland as well as England.'

'Then the Devil burn him! Roast and seethe him everlastingly! Precious soul o' God, I… I…' With an obvious effort James controlled himself, if not his twitching mouth and flooding spittle. 'Folly!' he got out. 'This is folly! D'you hear, girl? All folly. For Philip willna win England – much less Scotland.' He rounded on Lennox. 'You, Vicky – you ken it's folly! He shouts loud, does yon Philip – but he'll never reach London. Na, na – he's been shouting ower long, the man. His Armada's all but boggarts and belly-wind! For years he's been threatening it…'

'A great fleet of ships, Sire, takes long to build, does it not?' Lennox pointed out.

'Tcha! These ships are but spectres, I warrant. And didna the man Drake burn a wheen o' them no' that long past…?'

'Drake could not burn spectres,' his cousin pointed out reasonably.

'Houts, man! Forby, doesna Elizabeth build ships, too? She is a hard woman yon – but she kens how to hold her ain. Soul o' God, she does! She builds fine ships, too – bonny ships…'

'Will they be ready in three months, Your Grace?'

'Eh…?' James goggled, as much at the calm factual way that the girl asked it, as at the question itself. 'Three… three months?'

'Yes. For that is when they will be needed. So says my Uncle Patrick. The Master of Gray.'

'A-a-ah!' The King's breath came out part-sigh, part-snort 'So that's it! Yon limb o' Satan! Yon apostate knave! Yon… yon arch-traitor!' His eyes darted and rolled with seemingly enhanced urgency, as though their owner looked to see the Master of Gray materialise there and then from behind some tree, from the very ground at his feet. 'So he is in it, eh? Where? Where is he? Here's a plot, then – a black plot, if yon one's in it. You'll no tell me otherwise… ' The royal gabble faltered and died in a harsh croak, as James abruptly raised a padded arm, and jabbed a pointing, trembling finger. 'Who's yon?' he demanded, out of his incoherences. 'Guidsakes -who's yon? There's a man in there – a black man in yon bushes. Watching me! Hiding! It's… it's a plot. Treason! God be good – treason, I say!'

He was pointing straight at David Gray in the thicket, as his voice rose towards panic. His questing glance was proved none so short-sighted: their move forwards, away from the throng of courtiers, had in fact brought the trio into a position that partly invalidated the cover of that thicket.

'No treason,' Mary said quickly, but quietly still. 'That is but my father. Davy Gray, whom you know well.'

'Davy Gray! Davy Gray! A rogue, then! A base-born limmer! A knave… watching me…!'

'Not so, Sire. But the same man who saved you from Ruthven!'

'He means no ill, Cousin,' Lennox put in. 'He but brought his daughter. That she might warn you of all this… '

'What does he hide for, then? Yonder. Peeking out at me? Spying on me?'

'He but waits for Mary, here. You have forbidden him your royal presence, he says. So he could not come before you himself

'Have him out, then. Here wi' him. I'll no' be spied on, I tell you…'

At the Duke's wave, David Gray rode out from his bushes, slowly, reluctantly, set-faced. Doffing his humble blue bonnet, he came up to them, inclined his bare head stiffly to his monarch, and so sat.

but not humbly. That was Lord Gray's constant complaint against this by-blow of his; he was never suitably humble, in any circumstance. Sometimes indeed he seemed to have more unseemly pride than even the nobly-born Grays, soberly stern as he was. He did not speak, now.

James seemed to find it difficult to look at him directly. 'Well, man – well?' he said impatiently. 'What's the meaning o' it? Hiding in there like a tod in a cairn?'

'Twelve months back, Your Grace – less – you said that you never wished to set eyes on me again.' David answered evenly. 'I would not seek to oppose your wishes – in that, or in any other matter.'